


A Dangerous Thing

by stupidityisdangerous



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 76th Hunger Games, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Depression, F/F, F/M, Post-Book 3: Mockingjay, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Epilogue Mockingjay, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, please see notes for further trigger/content warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidityisdangerous/pseuds/stupidityisdangerous
Summary: “It occurs to me then just how much I long to feel those lips on mine again, how I’ve been craving them since the desperate last days of my interrupted youth and continued to crave them still even when we were both half-mad and surely doomed to die.“How easy it would be to reach down and press those lips against mine, how much I wonder if he would still react the same way, if his breath would still taste the same, if his tongue would shyly touch mine as I pressed my chest against his. But there is no romantic inclination between us anymore. The roles have been put to rest and his love for me has died with the melting of the last of District Twelve’s winter snow.”Katniss and Peeta settle into their new roles in the nation that they helped create, and then are abruptly forced to return to their onscreen personas once a past decision comes back to bite them in the ass. (Or: Katniss and Peeta grow back together, and then the Hunger Games with Capitol children tests the strength of their relationship.)
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Johanna Mason, Gale Hawthorne/Original Female Character(s), Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	1. Part I: The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story begins immediately after Katniss’s confrontation with Buttercup in _Mockingjay_. It will be split into three parts, each of which will include thirteen or so chapters, each 1k+ words in length. Part I: The Letter, is about Katniss and Peeta growing back together. 
> 
> When trigger warnings apply, I will make sure to include them in the notes beforehand.
> 
> Thanks to [Alex](http://elricsister.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing and dealing with all my neurotic bullshit.

> “There’s a new revolution, a loud evolution that I saw / Born of confusion and quiet collusion of which I’ve mostly known / A modern day woman with a weak constitution, ‘cause I’ve got / Monsters still under my bed that I could never fight off / A gatekeeper carelessly dropping the keys on my night off (...) They write that I’m happy, they know that I’m not / But at best, you can see I’m not sad / But hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have”

– Lana Del Rey, ["hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have—but i have it"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rY2LUmLw_DQ)

It’s mid-afternoon when I come to. My eyes are swollen and puffy and it takes me a moment to place my surroundings. I am lying on the sofa in my home in the Victor’s Village. Buttercup is nowhere to be seen. Evidently, cleaning his cuts for him this morning has not made him forgive me for all the years of mutual rancor between us. 

I’m wearing my father’s hunting jacket and sweat has made the worn leather arms stick to my damp skin.

Shakily sitting up, I shed off the garment and toss it over the back of the sofa. The fireplace is still burning, but the vase with Snow’s roses and the outfit I wore coming back from the Capitol are now nothing but ash. This gives me a small sense of comfort, and I sink to the floor in front of the couch, rebraiding my hair with slow fingers and allowing myself to sweat in the intensified early spring heat.

It feels like winter went on forever, and for once, I’m glad to be surrounded by the beginnings of District Twelve’s sweltering spring and summer humidity. 

_Finally,_ I muse, _a place for a girl on fire._

I look up at the mantle, making eye contact with the framed photos of my sister, mother, and father. I swallow a lump in my throat and rise to my feet, gently running my fingers across the cool glass of the frames, pretending that I’m touching their faces.

Beside a portrait of Prim sits the envelope Haymitch gave me the day we left the Capitol. It’s the letter from my mother, her last parting words before she abandoned me for a second time to fend for myself in Twelve. Holding the envelope in my hands, I feel the weight of the thick parchment. I see my name written in the center in her perfect script. For the first time, it hits me that she’s the only family I have left. 

I step backwards, gently scooting Buttercup aside and falling gracelessly to the couch, finally ready to take in her words.

> _Dear Katniss,_
> 
> _I am writing this from my hotel room in the Capitol. They wouldn’t tell me where you were staying until after your trial had ended. And by that point, I understood that you probably wouldn’t want to see me._
> 
> _As you can probably understand, I will not be returning to District Twelve. I just can’t stand to set foot there and know that neither of them will be waiting for me at home. Everywhere I looked, I would be haunted by the memories of all I have lost._
> 
> _I never had your father’s way with words, but I know that it is important that I leave you with something. I am trying my best to make the words come out right. First and foremost,I want you to know that I am sorry._
> 
> _I’m sorry about Apsat’s death. I’m sorry about my absence. I’m sorry about both of your Games. I’m sorry about all your losses. I’m sorry that you hurt so much right in front of me and I never did anything about it._
> 
> _The truth is, I never particularly wanted to be a mother. Like you, I wasn’t very fond of my own mother myself._
> 
> _And you were always so independent. Even when you were an infant, you never seemed to need me. You used to wail all day as a baby. I would rock you and feed you and do everything I could think of, but you never seemed to want my comfort. The only time you were content was when your father was around. When you two were together, I disappeared into the background. I used to get so jealous of you. It sounds so silly now, but I was so young and I felt so alone in the Seam. Nobody I knew from Town would speak to me after I married Apsat and all our neighbors merely seemed to tolerate me because he was so popular._
> 
> _Prim was so much easier. She was so loving and trusting. She seemed to really need me, in a way that you never had._
> 
> _And she needed you too. You were drawn to one another right away. You used to throw the worst fits about going to school because all you wanted to do was stay home and be with her. You’d come home and she’d immediately start squirming in my arms.It made your father so happy, watching both his girls dote after the baby._
> 
> _I failed you both so much. I couldn’t protect either of you. The amount of times you nearly died before my eyes and I was useless to try and stop it. I remember looking at you, really looking at you both for the first time after your father’s death, and seeing your gaunt cheeks, your swollen stomachs, and knowing that it was all my fault, I tried so hard to earn your trust back after that, but even I knew that my attempts were futile. I don’t remember most of those hard months following his death. The few memories I do have are dazed and distant. It was like I fell into a deep sleep, and when I woke up, my eldest daughter hated me and my youngest daughter was wary of me. I’ve spent all of your teenage years trying to earn back your trust, but you’ve brushed off all my attempts at reconciliation. It was like we were opposite sides of the district and Prim was running back and forth between us. All details of your early womanhood were told to me secondhand. I remember walking in on you washing rags one morning and realizing you hadn’t even told me the news of your first period. I remember watching you walk home with Gale and not being sure if there was something between you. I remember the day of Prim’s reaping, being elated that you would let me do something for you as basic as braiding your hair. I remember watching you in your Games with Prim by my side, both of us just holding one another and crying and crying. I remember lonely dinners during your Victory Tour when everyday just seemed like a series of tasks meant to distract us both while we waited for you to come back. I remember us crying so much during your time in the Quell. I remember her sleeping in my bed every night you were gone, from the first night of your Games all the way up until we were all together again in Thirteen. We were so sure we were going to lose you and we knew that nothing would feel complete after that._
> 
> _I used to think that your father was the glue holding us all together. After his death, I thought it was you. Now I realize that we were all equally necessary pieces of the puzzle. With one of us gone, there will always be some vital part missing. Time may pass and the pain may dull slightly, but we will never be that family again._
> 
> _I remember a long time ago, when I was a few years younger than you are now, my best friend was reaped into the Second Quarter Quell. Her name was Maysilee Donner. I never did know quite how that mockingjay pin came into your hands but during that Games, it was her token. And after that Games, when the Capitol sent home her body, rigid and cold, I watched her sister and mother fade away. The same way that I worry we are both fading away now._
> 
> _I didn’t frequent Paysilee Donner after that. After I married, I never even saw her. But I know you knew her daughter. You didn’t share many aspects of your teenage years with me, but I know that you were friends with Madge Undersee. And I know you probably know just how sick her mother was._
> 
> _I don’t ever want you to be that sick. I don’t ever want to be that sick again myself._
> 
> _I know you don’t trust me. I know you feel abandoned by me and it’s not without sound cause. I know you may never want to speak to me or see me ever again. But do know that I love you and I loved Prim and you don’t ever have to go through anything alone. Not ever again._
> 
> _For reasons I’m sure you can understand, I won’t be coming back to Twelve. I’m not sure exactly whereI’ll be moving to, but the Capitol is sending nurses out to all the districts. When I’m assigned my new address, I’ll leave it here. I want you to be able to reach me, no matter how many miles are between us._
> 
> _Your mother,_
> 
> _Cicely Everdeen_

I read the letter many times over until my tears start to drip onto the expensive Capitol stationary and I realize I am crying. She has written an address on the last page, an apartment somewhere in District Four, and there’s a phone number below it. Haphazardly trying to wipe my wet tears off the pages to stop the black ink from smearing, I find myself walking on heavy feet to the telephone in the kitchen.

With the robotic motions of somebody whose mind is currently far away from their body, I type in the ten digits and lock myself in the nearest bathroom. Sinking to the floor, I lean against the wall and listen to the buzzing on the other side of the line. It rings one…two...three...almost ten times without an answer. Then, just as I’m about to hang up, I hear my mother’s voice.

“Hello? Cicely Everdeen speaking.”

“Mom.” I sound so quiet and childlike. I find myself thinking back to days spent home from school when I was sick, calling out in a desperate voice for her affections.

“Katniss?” she gasps, like she’s been underwater for minutes and has just come up for air. “Katniss, you’re home.”

“Yeah…I just read your letter.” She chokes back a sob and I realize then that she’s crying. “Mom, don’t cry,” I plead. “I’m okay now,” I begin to cry again too, “Mom, I’m okay.”

I’m not sure what we talk about after that, if we even talk about anything at all. I hear my voice at times, but it sounds far away and distant. Sometimes I hear it and it’s a moment before I even register it as my own. There are some moments where neither of us talk at all, we just cry in sync with the other’s sobs. The information she does convey to me in-between the crying spells is very basic. My mother is living in an apartment building for “displaced women” in central District Four. Her neighbors are women like her, women who have lost someone or everyone in the war and have homes they can’t go back to or don’t have homes at all anymore. She’s working as a nurse for a hospital that is being built piece-by-piece in the district. All the districts are being rebuilt, she tells me, but due to its size and its beauty, Four is seeing the most immigrants. 

I try to picture my mother amongst the tanned fishers of Four. I try to imagine her on a beach in a nurse’s uniform, her long blonde hair braided up on top of her head and her porcelain complexion freckling in the harsh sun. It doesn’t make sense, but somehow it fits. This lone, idealized version of my mother blends in with the diverse former residents of other districts. She works in a hospital with real equipment straight from the Capitol. She wades into the cold ocean water with her scrubs pulled up to her knees. For the first time in a long time, she’s happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a moodboard for this fic, if you're interested. You can find that and various other degrees of aesthetic on my [Tumblr](http://caucasianbuttslut.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Mr. Everdeen’s first name, Apsat, is after the male deity of birds, animals, and hunting in Georgian mythology. Mrs. Everdeen’s first name, Cicely, is a white-flowered plant with fern-like leaves that is most commonly used as a medicinal herb.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss contemplates her relationship with Peeta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicized dialogue is taken directly from _Mockingjay_ (pp. 242–243) because it’s my fanfiction and I can do whatever I want.
> 
> Thanks to [Alex](http://elricsister.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing the first few drafts of this chapter.

Peeta’s presence in my life is inconsistent and forced. He comes to my house for meals now, bringing with him fresh bread and the forced liveliness of somebody so naturally charismatic that they can’t help but make small talk even when every aspect of their life should be making them absolutely miserable.

Sometimes, I wonder if this is now all that we’ll ever be; if this is the way we are now going to co-exist forever; if our relationship has just become this on-and-off, impersonal companionship.

What are we when the cameras are off, when the act isn’t needed, when nobody else is around? What will we become without the pressure of a nation on our shoulders? Although we no longer touch or kiss or even speak, it still feels sometimes as if he is all that I have left. Without Prim’s light or Gale’s fire, there is only Peeta’s warmth that can comfort me. But comfort me he never does, and I don’t comfort him either. All we do is sit, eat, exchange in only the most surface-level conversations. 

He’s right next to me, but he feels even farther away than he did when I was in Thirteen and he was in the Capitol. There is no television screen separating us, no roles being played, but he is so out of my reach that he might as well be a figment of my imagination.

Sometimes, I just want to shout at him. To scream and cause a scene and make him react to me, make him see me, make him calm me like he used to. I want to pound my fists against the broadness of his chest and send things crashing off the table and onto the ground. I want to cause such a ruckus that guards come and sedate me. I want Haymitch to tell me off on being cruel and Effie to lecture me on my poor manners. 

He’s here. We’re right next to each other. We’re eating from the same loaf of bread and drinking from the same faucet. But he’s not making jokes in my ear. He’s not clutching my hand under the table. He’s not giving me that smile, that special smile that used to make the redness start in my cheeks and burn all the way down to my chest. I want him to follow me up to my bedroom even though it’s not appropriate and I want him to play with my braid while I lie on his chest. I want him to tell me he loves me, say it so sincerely that my throat closes up and my eyes look away and I can’t whisper a response beyond “I know.”

I want him to be the boy in my memories again but I don’t have the means of restoration.

He’s definitely getting better, but he’s not the same. The boy I kissed on the beach is long dead and gone, beaten to death in the dungeons deep beneath the earth of the Capitol and left to decay in his quarters somewhere in the Presidential Mansion. He may gain weight and his scars may fade and his eyes may become clearer as the therapy and medications sooth his mind, but I remember things between us that he may never recall again. It’s like I have parts of him in my memory that he doesn’t even realize he’s missing. The things you can’t see on camera; the smell of sweat, blood, grime, and streamwater in the cave in our first arena. Slimy raw oysters and lukewarm freshwater with a metallic taste from the spiel, the best meal you’ve ever tasted, enjoyed on the moist beach in the Quell. Kissing when I was wearing lipstick and running my fingers through his hair when it was gelled, the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve and their shameless public displays of affection at Capitol parties.

Words cannot explain all these details, so mundane under ordinary circumstances but heightened and unforgettable within the vivid context of our Games and public appearances, events lived through with a beating heart and a twisting stomach, moments when I was sure I would collapse if he hadn’t always been holding my hand.

And then there’s all the quiet moments between us, moments with no words and no audiences. Mistakenly tranquil and weirdly domestic. Him unzipping my dress while I held the front of the garment to my chest with the iron grip of embarrassment. Us brushing our teeth side by side in the morning and scrubbing the makeup off our faces at night. Him always offering to comb my wet hair after I showered. Me caressing the stump below his knee, cautiously, both of us holding our breath, when he took his prosthetic off for the first time so that he could sleep beside me without dealing with the pain in the morning. Both of us, waking up to Effie knocking on the door in the morning, pretending not to notice the evidence of his want pressed into my ass.

I think about his comment back in Thirteen. It was in the dining hall, at what meal, I’m not quite sure. But it was the first time I’d seen him since we’d both gotten out of the hospital. He was still wearing handcuffs. Two guards escorted him to our table—my family, the Hawthornes, the Odairs, Delly, and I—and he had to ask for permission to sit. I granted it.

Peeta had made a comment towards Annie, something Finnick didn’t like.  _ “You be nice to her, Finnick. Or I might try and take her away from you.” _ It could’ve been a joke, if he hadn’t said it so coldly.

_ “Oh, Peeta,”  _ said Finnick lightly. _ “Don’t make me sorry I restarted your heart.” _

_ “He did save your life, Peeta,”  _ Delly reminded him once Finnick and Annie had left. _ “More than once.” _

_ “For her.”  _ He’d given me a brief nod. _ “For the rebellion. Not for me. I don’t owe him anything.” _

I shouldn’t have risen to the bait, but I did.  _ “Maybe not. But Mags is dead and you’re still here. That should count for something.” _

_ “Yeah, a lot of things should count for something that don’t seem to, Katniss. I’ve got some memories I can’t make sense of, and I don’t think the Capitol touched them. A lot of nights on the train, for instance,”  _ he had said.

I glance over at him now, where he’s sitting beside me at my kitchen island. He ignores me, pushing around the scrambled eggs on his plate absentmindedly while him and Sae make their usual small talk.

I wonder if he really couldn’t make sense of our nights together, if his jumbled-up mind and mixed-up memories had somehow convinced him that we had done something more than sleep beside one another. If so, I wonder if he still thinks that now. Does he think we…?

I look away from him quickly at the thought, putting my head down and letting my loose hair fall down on the side of my face, obscuring me from view while I stare intensely at my toast and try to will the blush away from my cheeks.

If he can’t even remember if we  _ slept together _ —which we never did, not in that way anyway, although I doubt it didn’t cross both our minds at some point—then what does he think of the nature of our relationship as a whole? Does he have false memories of our alleged toasting ceremony, our performative attempts to escape the Capitol parties for some “alone time,”  _ our baby? _ Surely, he must realize that it was all a rouse. But...even then, it wasn’t  _ always _ . We did have our share fair of honest moments. His story in the cave for example, about kindergarten and my little plaid dress, as far as I’m aware, he really did see me in that way from that point forward. And I never lied to him for a moment when we were alone. At least, not about anything that mattered. During the nights on the train and the afternoons in my bedroom, it never even crossed my mind to be anything but honest with him. And I always assumed he was just as honest with me.

Thinking about it for too long, my head starts to spin. It’s so confusing, all of it, even before Prim was reaped, it was still confusing. There’s so many layers to all we have experienced together. Even the bread he threw to me that first spring after my father died had a larger motive. That we are supposed to eat together now, to converse lightly about meaningless topics like town gossip and the weather, it’s an almost laughable expectation, because nothing between us has  _ ever _ been anything even remotely ordinary or simple.

“Excuse me,” I stand up from the island, pushing my plate away from me even though I’ve had barely a bite of my toast, “I’m not feeling well.” I basically run up the stairs, opening and closing my bedroom door with a flourish and burrowing into my comforters. I stay like this for some time, just rolled into a ball beneath my sheets, but neither he nor Sae come and check on me and in the end, I’m not sure whether I’m disappointed or relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is emotion-driven rather than plot-driven, so I’m sorry if you were looking forward to something more exciting. Just know that we’re working with slow, slow, slow burn here and in order to do that, I needed to put all of Katniss's cards on the table first. Now...let the suffocating long-term sexual tension begin!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta have a late-night encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: suicidal ideation, brief mention of disordered eating.
> 
> Thanks to [Alex](http://elricsister.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing and [Morgan](https://bloodyknuckles.tumblr.com/) for her unwavering support :)

District Twelve is so small now, so much more vast and lonely than it ever was before. Out of the eight hundred that survived the bombing, only two hundred or so returned home, and we are spread sporadically throughout what used to be such a close-knit district. Sometimes, I walk for hours through the remains of empty streets, no destination in mind, no errands to be run, and I am just overwhelmed by the feeling of loneliness that seems to accompany every previously familiar turn, every once busy road.

Again and again, I find myself walking aimlessly only to end up standing in the ashes of my old house, and sometimes I sit in the soot, wishing myself into a fantasy where I am resting in front of the fireplace with my sister, and my father will soon be home.

My own house in the Victor’s Village feels so foreign now. All the rooms I did not decorate and the items I did not choose seem misplaced and confusing. Often, I feel like a stranger walking through a museum, seeing the long abandoned rooms and wondering what type of people used to dwell there.

I begin to spend more and more time outside, leaving immediately after breakfast and not coming back until well after dinner. I don’t bother to try and hunt anymore. Most days, I don’t even let myself eat. I just lie in the grass between the meadow and the mouth of the woods, letting my body sink into the earth beneath me, drifting in and out of consciousness under the heat of the sun. 

Over the course of a few weeks, the exposed skin on my hands, face, and neck return to a deep olive I haven’t seen on myself since immediately after my second Games. My cheeks become sunken and hollow, my stomach concave, and my knees knobby. My hair matted, my clothes dirty, my lips dry and cracking, and my breath rank. I look more Seam than I have in almost two years. Physically, my prepubescent fifteen-year-old self and I are nearly one in the same. But if she could have seen me then, denying myself nutrients with virtually all the world’s privileges at my fingertips, she would be disgusted. 

Sun tired and half-dazed, I am only sure of my existence in the moments when I let myself completely become one with the woods. Sink my nails into the soft earth and dig the heels of my boots into the meadow’s grass. Take a deep breath in through my nose and exhale out my mouth. Close my eyes and tilt my face towards the sun. Make believe that this is my final resting place. Tell myself that there will be no walk home later tonight, no breakfast with Peeta and Sae in the morning. It’s a comforting thought and I dwell on it almost daily. Everyday, it makes it harder and harder for me to force myself to go home when the sun goes down.

My walks home have become a race with the setting sun. On the sole occasion that I lost, I find myself stumbling blindly through town, relying on muscle memory until the soft glow of the Victor’s Village becomes visible in the distance.

I am exhausted by the time I got to the gate, and am ready to go to sleep in my hunting jacket and jeans—a situation which is becoming far too common—when I hear his voice coming from behind me.

“You’re getting home late.” I turn to see Peeta sitting on the steps of his porch in pajamas, his eyes bloodshot and his tiredness visible in the dark shadows on his face.

“Why are you up?” I ask, deflecting his question.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmares?”

“What else?” He slumps against his steps, the bottom of his shirt riding up with the movement to reveal the impossibly white skin of his lower abdomen. I avert my eyes.

“You should go inside,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I could say the same to you.”

I sigh, far too tired to deal with him when he’s being difficult. “Fine, sit on your front steps all night like a weirdo, see if I care.” I’m getting agitated over nothing, but it’s late and I’m drained and I’m beyond exasperated with constantly doing this dance with him.

Wanting nothing more than to go upstairs and cry myself to sleep, I shove my key into the lock of the front door. As if to spite me, the damned piece of useless metal won’t turn. Growing quickly aggravated, I begin to shake the doorknob angrily to no avail. I’m about five seconds away from starting to kick at the wood with my boots when Peeta comes up beside me.

“Need some help, Katniss?” He asks. There’s the smallest hint of amusement on his face and it piques me. How dare he ignore me all these past weeks, demote me to a role of forced acquaintance, and then return to my side exhibiting the same levity he always used to when I had gotten myself worked up for no reason.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I say through gritted teeth, and, much to my indignation, he chuckles lightly at my vexation, placing his hand over mine to stop me from ripping the knob off my front door. What should just be gentle physical contact startles me and I jerk back as if I’ve been electrocuted.

He puts his hands up as if to say “whoa there, calm down,” and then gets to work on trying to open the door himself.

This goes on for a few minutes before I see that his luck isn’t any better than mine, and then it’s my turn to laugh at his expense. 

“Need some help, Peeta?” I tease.

He laughs and I display a rare smile. 

“Do you have a key to the back door?”

I shake my head and he lets out a frustrated sigh. I don’t think the back door’s ever even been opened. If a key for it does exist, I wouldn’t know where to find it. Gnawing on an already-too-short nail, I rack my brain for other points of entry.

“I could crawl through the kitchen window,” I suggest.

“I guess.” Peeta runs his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots, and I’m worried for a moment that he might rip some of it out.

“Come on,” I say, wanting to distract him. Hesitantly, I take his hand in mine, leading the way to the back of the house where I always leave a kitchen window cracked open for Buttercup.

The window isn’t up that high, but the ground floor of the house is still a little tall and I’m more than a little short. Buttercup has no problem jumping in and out as he pleases though, so how hard can it really be?

Peeta offers to hoist me up but I reject him. I’m at chest-level with the window and I should be strong enough to pull myself up with my arms. Or, at least, I was strong enough months ago before a second Games, a myriad of injuries, a few weeks of self-starvation, and a month of inactivity took a toll on my body.

With all the strength my attenuated frame can muster, I try to pull myself up onto the windowsill, but the angle is awkward and I can’t find a way to get my entire body up there.

“Let me try,” Peeta says.

“I don’t need you to lift me,” I insist stubbornly.

“I mean, let me try climbing in.”

“You’re joking,” I say.

“Why would I be joking? I’m like seven inches taller than you.”

_ You also have about half as many legs as I do, _ I think, but I bite my tongue. Seemingly satisfied with my lack of verbal resistance, Peeta throws himself at my window with a determination that only a former high school athlete can possess and eats shit almost immediately, the windowsill slipping right out from his grasp and his leg giving out as he falls to the dirt with a thump. 

Startled, I burst out laughing. It’s an unattractive, sharp cackle, a noise I wasn’t previously aware I was still capable of making, something pre-war, pre-Games, maybe even pre-Gale. A noise associated with childhood and my father, one that would mix with Prim’s high-pitched giggle. It’s the type of laugh that comes with a feeling, a pain in the chest from the rapid expanding and contracting of the lungs, but a pain completely bearable and maybe even yearned for because of its corresponded glee. Peeta seems alarmed, disturbed even by my spontaneous elation, and the look of worry on his face only makes me laugh harder, laugh until we hear Haymitch slamming open a front-facing window and yelling at me to  _ “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” _ and then Peeta’s laughing too.

Our manic chortling goes on for some time before we are able to sit completely still beside one another in the grass, catching our breath, without glancing at one another and immediately breaking back out into hysterics. We have no doubt interrupted Haymitch’s already fitful sleep, but he hasn’t yelled from his window or made himself known otherwise since, so we are left alone in the quiet of the night when the moment of perceived hilarity passes.

It’s a miracle to me that Peeta was even able to survive such a startle as the one he no doubt experienced when he fell and I burst out laughing without having a flashback. The Peeta I left behind in the Capitol would’ve been pulling his hair out and sinking his own teeth into his flesh to ward away a breakdown just from the fall alone.

I look at him curiously now, unsure what I’m looking for in his blue eyes but definitely looking for something, and he must be uncomfortable under my evaluating gaze, because he draws my attention back to the dilemma of how to get into my locked house. I look away, embarrassed that he caught me looking me at him again. I really need to work on not staring.

“So…” he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and looking at me with a sheepish, boyish expression. “What’s our next move?”

_ Our _ next move. I gnaw on my bottom lip, a blush starting in my cheeks as I admit defeat with my next words. “I guess you could give me a boost.”

“Oh,” he says playfully, “so you wouldn’t let me help lift you before, but now that you’ve gotten to laugh at me falling, you’ll let me give you a hand? How generous, Katniss.”

“Sorry,” I apologize in a meek voice and his teasing expression softens.

“It’s alright,” he says sincerely. “It’s not like you told me to throw myself at your kitchen window.”

I open my mouth to protest but he stands before I can begin, offering a hand. I accept it, pulling myself up on his weight.

After brainstorming a few different ways that Peeta could get me to the window—most of which I veto because they involve me using him as a human step ladder—we come up with the type of solution which only two sleep-deprived teenagers could manage.

Taking a slight running start, I jump up as far as I can onto the windowsill and he grabs me by the waist, pushing me up until my upper half is on the counter in my kitchen and I’m able to flip onto my back and push the window the rest of the way up, bringing in my legs and rolling awkwardly onto the linoleum floor; only landing somewhat on my feet. This is not a graceful experience by any means, nor is it particularly touching or intimate, but it’s more teamwork than we’ve exhibited together in a while. 

Reaching my head out the now wide-open window to thank him profusely and bid him farewell, he puts his hand up for a high five and I surprise even myself by going in for a hug instead. It’s an awkward hug, one that would have Haymitch lecturing me back on the train about under-performing had we been on-camera at that moment, and the window ledge between us is no help. It takes him a moment to return my tight embrace, and he’s unsure at first before we give into one another completely. It’s nice, really nice, an all-encompassing warmth that I never knew to be grateful for until it was taken away from me.

And later, when I’m lying in bed and finally falling asleep, I can still feel that warmth all around me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so fucking long. I rewrote it—no joke—about seven times over several months before I was satisfied with it. To quote Sylvia Plath, “the worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt,” and holy shit, am I filled to the brim with it.
> 
> Fortunately for all of us, the chapter proceeding this one has been finalized since August and so I won’t be posting this one and then disappearing for almost four(?) months again. I’ll still make you guys wait like a week though, just to build anticipation ;)
> 
> Also, if anyone’s interested, I headcanon Katniss as 5’0” (154.4 cm) and Peeta as around 5’7” (170.9 cm).


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta spend some quality time together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Alex](https://elricsister.tumblr.com) for beta-ing.

Once the initial contact is made, his presence in my life just becomes more and more lingering as the days go on. It’s a completely new dynamic, not being forced together constantly like we were before. Now, if I want to see him, I have to seek him out myself, and just the knowledge that I do, in fact, want to see him terrifies me. It’s a want that starts deep in the pit of my stomach and warms me from my chest to the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes; a want not exactly romantic but far too strong to be platonic. It’s electricity in its most natural form, not caused by lightning in the sky or wires in the walls, but by something primal and ancient that comes and goes with the vulnerabilities of our human nature. 

I still go into the woods, but I don’t stay out too long now. I hunt if I have the energy and rest if I don’t. Regardless though, I always come home before noon and Peeta is always baking something when I get there.

Much to my surprise, Haymitch also starts to visit, something that never occurred before. Before, if I wanted to speak to him, I would have to force open his door and confront him myself. Now, he comes often and unannounced, stealing a bite of whatever Peeta or Sae are serving and drinking when his plate is clear.

Meals become a sort of social event in my household. Haymitch, Peeta, Sae, and I are always there without fail and sometimes Greasy Sae’s granddaughter, Tessie, joins us as well.

We make an odd group, the lot of us. With the way our routines have come to intertwine, an outsider might mistake us all for a family. 

What they are to me, I’m not sure, but friends sound too casual and family feels like a betrayal to Prim and my father. All I know is that we take care of each other, and I’ve long yearned for somebody to take care of me.

At Peeta’s insistence, I finally give in to my court-ordered therapy with Dr. Aurelius and we now have three sessions a week—the only time I am ever left alone in my house. This simple act of answering the phone when it rings seems to open up all sorts of endless possibilities. With Dr. Aurelius’s encouragement, Peeta and I put together heavy care packages of freshly baked bread, pre-cooked game, and roots I dug up from the woods that can be replanted in order to grow herbs and vegetables for years to come. 

Thom, one of Gale’s old co-workers from the mines, lends me his wheelbarrow and Peeta and I spend an entire day going through the district and delivering the care packages.

Having grown up in the Seam, I am not unaware of what poverty looks like. I have lived in a house with a crumbling foundation. I have shared an outhouse with my neighbors and a bed with my sister. I have re-boiled water from my bath to drink and scraped the mold off expired food to eat. I am not surprised by the poor living conditions of my former neighbors. The hastily constructed shacks which they have built themselves to live in temporarily are crowded and insufficient in providing shelter from extreme weather, but they are not completely unlivable. Yet I am still burdened by a heavy guilt when I see them, because I know that the circumstances under which they have been built are a direct result of my actions.

Peeta, too, is visibly upset by the poorly furnished interiors, the low wooden roofs, and the lack of floorboards but I know that it’s not because we share the same burden. Peeta will never have to live with the guilt of starting a war. Right now, all he needs to live with is the after-effects of growing up privileged. Being from Town, he’s used to being poor, but he’s not used to being desperate.

The day’s realizations travel with us on the journey home, and we walk the first mile or so in complete silence. It’s not until we’ve just passed the empty town square that he stops me and verbalizes what we’ve both been thinking. “Katniss, we have to help these people.”

I nod in agreement, but don’t say anything aloud. I want to help, of course, but I know deep down what Peeta doesn’t. I know that nothing I can do will ever give back these people’s loved ones or rebuild their family homes. I know that I could fight in a thousand wars and win a thousand Games but it could never undo the horrors which have been bestowed upon them because of my impulsivity. With one arrow, I took everything from them. With the ignition caused by one spark, I lit the fuse of the bomb that destroyed District Twelve.

I don’t let my internal distress show on my face, but around Peeta, I don’t have to. He makes me sit down next to him in the now-empty wheelbarrow, claiming that his leg is hurting and I should rest too.

His concern for me only heightens my guilt. Peeta is so kind, so naturally caring and lovable and charismatic. Even in the midst of his own personal dilemma, he temporarily disregards all his previous concerns at the first sign of my uneasiness. He is so good to me. He is so good to me after all this time even though I never deserved any of it. He is so good to me even after I bombed his district, killed his family, and broke some essential part of his mind. 

The words Haymitch spoke to me so long ago come back in that instant and I know even more clearly than I did then that they are the truth. I could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve Peeta. He could live one and still deserve somebody infinitely better than me. 

“What are you thinking?” Peeta asks softly.

I shake my head, pursing my lips together and focusing intently on the semi-cloudy April sky, willing myself not to crumble completely at his words.

“Katniss,” he pries, gentle but insistent, “please talk to me. I need you to talk to me.”

I cross my arms across my chest, turning my head away from him so that he cannot see my face. Pressing my fingernails into my upper arms so hard that it burns, I will myself to speak. It won’t make me worthy of him, but it’ll be enough for him at this moment. “I don’t want to upset you,” I say quietly. 

I feel him shift beside me and he reaches for my hands. “I’m not that fragile, you know,” he says, a teasing edge to his voice, “I think I’ve proven that I can handle you of all people.”

“What if…” I don’t have to say it. He knows what I’m thinking.

“Katniss, I haven’t had an episode in weeks,” he reassures me, rubbing gentle circles onto the back of my hands. “Dr. Aurelius has me on so many meds, I don’t even feel awake sometimes.”

I look at him then. I know what he means. Dr. Aurelius is alright, as far as doctors go, but he still has us both on a rainbow of Capitol medications. 

“My meds are just making me fat,” I admit sheepishly. Dr. Aurelius has me on a whole array of medications I don’t care enough to ask the side effects of. But from what I can see, they’re doing something, because all my pants are suddenly too tight in the hips. 

Peeta smiles. “That explains why this wheelbarrow’s so crowded,” he teases.

I poke him playfully in the stomach. “Maybe it’s just you, broad shoulders.” It’s a weak attempt at an insult, but he laughs anyway.

His laugh improves my mood significantly, and we talk of light things for some time before he returns to the initial issue at hand.

“What are we going to do?” He says again.

“I don’t know if there’s anything we can do,” I respond.

He frowns. He may not be as stubborn as I am, but he’s not going to give up on a problem that easily. “Do you think any of them would ever move into the Village?” He asks.

I shrug, not wanting to dishearten him with my answer. There is no Seam anymore, but the unspoken principles of it remain, and moving into one of the empty homes in our neighborhood would be a debt nearly unpayable. “I think people still want a little space from us,” I say evenly.

“Sae doesn’t seem to mind visiting,” he reasons.

“Sae’s different,” I respond, playing with our still intertwined hands.

He relents then. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows that it’s true.

“We could help them build more houses in town,” he suggests.

“With what materials, Peeta?” He gives me a look at my tone but doesn’t say anything, just lets go of my hands and lets out a deep, tired sigh.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. I’m wracking my brain for suggestions, wanting more than anything to be able to give him an answer, but nothing of substance is coming to mind.

“I wish there was just a way that we could give them all the things that we have,” he says, “we have so much money and space and stuff and meanwhile they live in shacks that leak when it rains and still don’t have enough food to feed their children.”

“Why don’t we just give them our stuff?” I suggest.

His brows furrow and he looks at me for a moment, thinking. 

“How many unused beds do you have in your house?” he inquires. 

I think it over in my head. “Three.” _Not counting Prim’s._

“And how many unused televisions and couches and desks?” He asks. “What about Haymitch and all the other houses in the Village?”

My eyes widen. There're about nine unused houses in the Victor’s Village and every one of them is filled to the brim with unused Capitol furnishings and decor.

Peeta’s face brightens with his excitement. “We could go through all of them and ours. Neither of us really want half of the stuff anyway. We could invite everyone from town and let them take whatever they please.”

It’s a good idea. People from the Seam might not touch any of our things, but it’d be foolish not to take advantage of all the unowned luxuries just collecting dust in the unused homes of the Village.

“Okay,” I say, agreeing.

Peeta grins. “So you’ll allow it?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course I’ll allow it.”

We get out of the wheelbarrow and walk the rest of the way home, our moods considerably better. Peeta’s so caught up in his eagerness to help that he’s forgotten all about my earlier misery. I’m so at ease in the presence of his elation that the pit of ceaseless guilt that always settles at the bottom of my stomach doesn’t even cross my mind.

But when the sun sets and he leaves my side, the nightmares still come. No matter how pleasant my daytimes may be, there’s always the nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time to watch these clueless heterosexuals get their Marie Kondo on!


End file.
